


to gates of gold and grace

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Chronic Pain, Depression, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Songfic, Suicide, nothing graphic but :v
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:30:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: do we die or are we sparedare we torn or do we tearHe sees it in the mirror, in his reflection that looks too much like his dad — ragged, worn, exhausted. And it's all so unfair.





	to gates of gold and grace

**Author's Note:**

> Dunno why but I am RIDING the angst train and going at lightspeed, baby!! Cause I'm havin’ a good time~ havin’ a good time~
> 
>  
> 
> But Please, please mind the tags! I’d hate for this to trigger anyone, so if this is something you’re not comfortable with, I hope you’ve moved on and away from this piece.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy. (or hate me for it, which i’m 1000% ok with bc you can suffer with me then)
> 
> No beta we die like regis (and noct)

It hurts. His back, his arms, his legs, even his mind. _Everything_ just hurts.

Noctis wakes up with silent tears in his eyes and a smoldering fire in his skin. His bones scream out in between their cracks and joints, and he wonders if he's laying in his own blood and expects the terrifying form of the Marilith to loom over him. He thinks it a nightmare, because despite the haze of pain addling his mind, he's rational enough to know those years have passed and no sick fuck should have the power to time travel Noctis back to the bloodshed.

But when his eyes adjust to the darkness and he recognizes the firm mattress of his bed beneath him, he realizes he must have woken up in the middle of the night. That and when even the slightest twitch in muscle sends a white lightning bolt of agony up his spine, he knows the pain is too real for it all to be a dream. Even breathing is a torment all in its own.

He cranes his neck, and yes there's the snap of pain, and he reads the green LEDs of his clock, blinking back a mocking 4:48 AM at him. He curses, because it's at least another 2 hours until Ignis comes around for breakfast and to ferry him to school. Then he curses again, because it's the weekend and that means Ignis won't be coming as early. Noctis looks over to where his phone should be, all charged up through the night, and he foolishly thinks he'll be able to reach over and —

A muffled scream rips out instead. Okay, no, definitely not moving. He swallows down his tears, tries to calm down his trembling that's only managing to set even more of his nerves on fire.

He'll just have to weather through the next few hours then. It's fine, he tells himself, because he's dealt with this before plenty of times. He'll be okay, he repeats, because lies are the only thing keeping him sane now.

 

 

Noctis would like to say the chronic pain was the worst of it, but nothing would be further from the truth. It isn't the physical as much as it is the mental.

If needed, he could get medical to dose him all the way up to his pretty little head, knocking him out long enough to get something more steady in his system. He could get one of those bracelets or necklaces with those emergency buttons, where a simple click would whisk him into the arms of emergency personnel or Ignis. He could always ask for a stronger prescription to manage the pain, and damn did he need a new one if the flare-ups were enough to incapacitate him for the whole day. He could return to the Citadel, where he'd have the entire staff at his beck and call and only the best medical attention Insomnia had to offer, instead of staying in this little apartment at the edge of the city. He could ask Gladio to tone down on their training regimen and request for days off that he so desperately needed, and the man would oblige because he's been debriefed on these things.

But Noctis didn't, because the physical pain was only the half of it. Or maybe the root of it? Not like he has the time or energy for that sort of introspection anyway.

He’s only seventeen, but his body feels like seventy with all its aches and rickety bones, muscle straining and joints cracking with each movement he makes. This body was supposed to be _his,_ for him to control and command at will. But it's only a cage now, keeping him a prisoner within its shackles of bone and ailing flesh. And being made hostage by his own body, well, it just does something to a person's mind.

He's lost control of something that should be rightfully his, and it's left him feeling like an outsider in his own skin. When he looks in the mirror and sees the dark circles under his eyes, the chapped skin on his face, and the hollowness in his cheeks, he wonders if that's really him, if he isn't some parasite hitching along for the ride.

And if he can't control at least himself, then what hope is there? He doesn't bother cleaning his rooms, leaves his clothes by the wayside when he _finally_ gets fed up with the stink of his own shirt, rarely takes a shower because what's the point of maintaining something that's broken beyond repair?

And he knows his friends hate seeing him like this. Ignis does what he can and tidies up his apartment whenever and wherever possible, cooks hearty food in hopes it'll help add cushioning to his bony ribs and thin arms. Prompto comes over to provide distraction with homework and video games, tries to crack jokes to maybe light a smile onto that sunken face. Gladio, well, he tries as well as a garula can try to fit through a keyhole; there's a too thin line between training a Prince and not pushing him to the brink of shattering, and Noctis really can't blame him for his efforts.

What hurts the most, though, is the king. Noctis sees his pain reflected in his father's sad eyes and careful touches, how he gently asks how his son is doing or what he's been up to while all painfully aware of the answers. Terrible, in agony, trying to survive and not break apart, Noctis doesn't say. Instead, he's doing pretty okay, the new meds are great, and school's fun.

He never mentions how looking at his own father brings on a whole new world of hurt. Regis is his future — broken and dying. Noctis is already both, so he wonders what that means for his own future. Not even fifty and his father is sporting a cane, a knee brace that only marginally helps his limp, hair all gray and white and appearing more of a grandfather than a father. There's an obvious strain on his body, no matter how hard he tries to hide the tremble in his hand or the weariness that comes from feeding the Crystal.

And the Crystal. It's a parasite, a leech, a _disease_ that takes and takes and takes. Noctis sees it in his father, sees it in the Ring that wraps itself around a bony finger. He sees it in the Wall that encompasses all of Insomnia, sucking the life out of its King to protect its people. He sees it in the mirror, in his reflection that looks too much like his dad — ragged, worn, exhausted. And it's all so unfair.

Pain is what makes his future, and he can do nothing about it. So he lets his trash pile up until Ignis comes over to clean and cook, and Noctis leaves the meals to spoil over in the fridge or throws them into the disposal when he's feeling particularly benevolent. He lets Prompto ramble about school and whatever mundane activities he's done that day, but he doesn't bother cracking a smile at his shitty but well-meaning jokes, tossing his photographs into the garbage when his friend finally leaves. He lets Gladio bark orders at him and push and shove him into the ground, and Noctis doesn't say a word of complaint while taking each and every blow because what's a few more bruises when he's grown so used to the pain.

And he hates himself all the more for it. And those are the days when all he wants to do is curl up and cry, but crying takes energy that he doesn't have. So he simply lays there and stares at the ceiling, wondering when it'll all end. Wondering if it hasn't already, if he's not some ghost stuck in purgatory. 

 

 

And there are days when Noctis tries his hardest. He runs on sheer willpower alone because gods know he's exhausted, from the chronic pain that dulls his mind and the depression that clouds over everything else, but he somehow manages these miracles. With Ignis’ help, he gets dressed in his finest suits, always a tad bit looser between each fitting, and they both notice it and see just how much weight Noctis continues to lose. But they don't ever comment on it. With the magic of makeup, they cover those dark circles under his eyes, add color to his ashen cheeks, and give an illusion of a fresh, healthy face. And under all the black fabric with his skinny limbs hidden away, it's hard to tell how truly thin he's become.

He's guided into the car, a sleek black thing that screams official Crownsguard, and they speed through the streets with little fanfare. Ignis keeps the small talk to a minimum only because he knows Noctis needs what little energy he has to make it through whatever public affair he's attending.

Soon enough they're greeted by flashing cameras and mobs of paparazzi. Noctis keeps his face neutral, until he remembers he's supposed to smile at these sorts of things, to give a good impression to the press and his people. So he plasters on what he _thinks_ is a smile, and it feels so foreign on his face and tires his cheeks. He walks down the yards of black carpet, steps up the short few stairs that already have his entire body tired, as he stares blankly ahead at the waiting figure of his father. They're standing in front of some museum, since some councilman thought it would make for good publicity to have both father and son bless the grand opening with their official presence.

Regis is handed a pair of large gleaming scissors, and he holds it right at the red ribbon spanning across the entrance. It takes Noctis a second too late that they're supposed to cut the ribbon together, and he hurries to place his hand on the other handle.

And snip. The ribbon is cut, and his job is over. After a few more words from the king, Noctis is escorted back to the car, and he's driven back home.

If only his life was so easy as cutting a string.

 

 

But maybe it is.

Noctis runs the tub, fills it to the brim with lukewarm water. He downs an entire bottle meant for only the worst of his days, swallows them dry one mouthful after the other. The taste doesn't even bother him. He keeps his clothes on and climbs into the tub, water spilling over the edge from the extra volume and splashing across the white tiles of his bathroom. He's slightly sorry for the mess Ignis will have to clean up, but at least ceramic is easy to mop up.

Noctis flexes his fingers and calls forth a dagger in a sputter of magic and crystals. The drugs are already working their way through his body as his organs undergo a systematic shutdown, and his hands go so numb he almost drops the blade. He manages to grip it tighter only because he knows he won't have the consciousness or the motor skills to pick it up again. He presses it against his wrist, knows this'll be his last insurance. If the overdose doesn't kill him first, then he'll drown in his own tub; and if that somehow doesn't work, then the blood loss will be his failsafe.

He uses the last of his energy to draw the dagger across his radial artery. And for the first and last time, everything is painless and he finally has control over _something_.

Snip, like a red ribbon. Snip, like the life in his hands.

He closes his eyes and sinks down to his grave, the water covering him like a gentle casket.

His next breath is taken in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Song: [Is This The End - We The Kings](https://youtu.be/DhxY1LJHfNk)


End file.
